Silver and Steel
by stormshaman
Summary: Sometimes heroism comes from an unlikely source. This is my first foray into Shadowrun fic after years in Battletech fandom, and the first fic I've written involving my favorite sport (and favorite team).
1. Silver and Steel, Part 1

"I am no superman  
I have no reason for you  
I am no hero; oh that's for sure  
But I do know one thing for sure  
Is where you are, is where I belong  
I do know, where you go, is where I want to be"

"Where Are You Going", by Dave Matthews Band

Sometimes I think that Granddad has it easy. He's human.

I, on the other hand, am not. I'm an elf, a product of the Sixth World. Granddad told me that when Dad was born (this was back in 2010, at the start of the Awakening), the doctors told him and Grandmom that their youngest child would grow up retarded and deformed because he had pointy ears and was long and skinny. "Put him in an institution," they said. "He'll be a burden to you." Grandmom told them all to frag themselves.

Very wise of her, I think. But then I'm what you would call "heavily biased", when you consider that if Grandmom had followed the advice of others I wouldn't be here.

The world used to be pretty simple—all humans, no magic. Then came the Awakening, the return of magic to the world. There were some harbingers in the latter part of 2010, as parents all over the world started giving birth to tall skinny kids with pointy ears (elves) and really short stumpy kids (dwarves). It was nearing the end of the current Mayan calendar. The end of the Fifth World, where magic didn't exist and elves and dwarves and orks and trolls didn't exist except in random fits and starts that produced people that bore some resemblance to the folks walking around today, and the start of the Sixth World.

Now magic is back, and so are elves and dwarves and orks and trolls. There are all kinds of fun critters, too. Old political entities have fractured, and new nations have formed. And of course there are the megacorporations, who may as well be a political unit unto themselves. At least Microsoft went down in flames.

My parents died when I was 10. Some Alamos 20,000 motherfraggers decided that it would be fun to make some stupid political statement by setting off a bomb at the Mall of America during the height of the holiday shopping season. That bomb was the worst incident of racially-motivated violence in the Twin Cities. 200 people dead, 2 of those 200 being my parents. The diatribe that they read on the news that night was the usual "we hate everyone that's not a member of our subspecies, and we hate everyone that doesn't hate the people that we hate" drek that they love to spout.

Welcome to the New Racism, folks. It's not about skin color anymore, it's about whether your ears are pointy or not and whether or not you have tusks or horns or are short and stumpy.

Perhaps it's time for me to introduce myself. My name is Neal. I play hockey, like my Granddad did.

Or rather, I used to play hockey. When I said I was a product of the Sixth World, I wasn't kidding. Not only am I an elf, but I'm Awakened too—that's a fancy term for saying that I have magical ability. I'm not a mage or a shaman, though. I follow the somatic path, as an adept of the Way of the Athlete. I use my magic to improve my body and mind, to make myself the best that I can be and to stay at the top of my game. I can dish out hits, and I can take hits—when the other guys are able to hit me, anyway. I can skate like the wind, and I've got one hell of a shot. I was the best damn defenseman in the NHL. The next Bobby Orr, they said. Rookie of the Year 2058. Norris Trophy 2059. I was proud. My family was proud.

Then I discovered that there was a problem: the NHL doesn't like us Awakened types. I don't get it, really. They have vatjobs that are so chipped that they set off metal detectors just by walking within 2 meters of them. They have players that have so much wire in them that they can moonlight as car stereos in the off-season. They even have a fraggin' cyber-zombie, for drek's sake (Toronto has him—the guy's got so much cyberware that they have to have a wiz on staff to keep the poor fragger alive, and they still can't win the Cup. Go figure). But if you're an adept, then by God that's just cheating and you can't play in the National Hockey League. So I got tossed out on my hoop and ripped in the press and treated like the worst sort of criminal by every sportswriter in North America. I would have had my trophies and everything else stripped from me on the way out if Granddad hadn't called a few people that he knows and pulled some of the proverbial strings.

I wept like a baby when they announced that I was banned from the League. I'd spent my whole life perfecting my game and perfecting myself so I could take a turn with the Stanley Cup like Granddad had, only to fall victim to the same damn thing that orphaned me—Prejudice with a capital P. Granddad says that he's still proud of me and that I don't have any reason to feel ashamed of what happened, but I still feel like I let him down. He tries to get me to play hockey with him, to talk puck like we used to when I was a kid, but I don't even last five minutes before breaking down.

So now instead of living the high life in the Ottawa-Hull Metroplex I live in a modest doss in Minneapolis (near my family—especially Granddad and my Nana (Mom's mom)) and work part-time as a bouncer at local clubs. It's relatively easy work, the pay is great, and it keeps me out of trouble most of the time. Every once in a while some drunken fool thinks that it'll be funny to hassle the disgraced ex-NHLer, but they're pretty easily dealt with (and non-lethally, thank you very much).

Where should I start, now that I've gotten the pleasantries and my life story out of the way?

Actually, I know where I'll start. At the beginning of this adventure, with Hoho showed up at my flat.

Hoho's a good friend of mine. Correction: he's one of my best friends. We've known each other since we were kids. He's a Bear shaman, which when you think about it is pretty logical (since he's all big and bear-like). He and I have been through a lot together; first girlfriends, driver's education, me going off to juniors, the whole ball of wax. When I got kicked out of the League and spent the better part of a year holed up in my apartment feeling sorry for myself and living off the buyout that the Senators gave me, Hoho was the one who got me to snap out of my funk and get my life back together. I hadn't seen him much since then. Last I'd heard of him, he'd been out East somewhere.

You have no idea how happy I was to see his face when I opened the door.

"Neal Hedican, you fancy-skating elvish bastard," Hoho boomed as he grabbed me in a big bearhug. "How are you, my old friend?!" He grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, like we used to do when we were kids, and we laughed.

He looked about like he did the last time I saw him—big and furry, with a scruffy brown beard on his ursine face and neo-tribal leathers and talismans all over the place. He smelled about the same, too—like a wet Kodiak (not that I've smelled a wet Kodiak mind you, but you get the picture).

"I'm doing pretty well, you old fuzzball." I thumbed over my shoulder. "Come on in, you're in time for dinner."

My doss is better than most, but still relatively modest. I can afford better, since I still have plenty of cred left over from the buyout, but I like what I have. It has a living room, a galley-style kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms—one for me, and one that I use as a makeshift dojo. The previous tenants (artists, obviously) painted a really nice-looking starscape on the walls, and the landlord liked it so much that he left it up as one of the selling points of the place. It certainly sold me. I have a bookshelf with my trophies and everything on it, to show to my friends. I even have family pictures up—Mom and Dad and Granddad and Grandmom and Nana and Poppa and my cousins and aunts and uncles. Most of them are gone; some to VITAS outbreaks, some to the violence that surrounded the Awakening and the Goblinization and the Night of Rage, some to various other things…like shadowrunning. Now all I have left are Granddad, Nana, and a few of my cousins. Nana's mentioned to me a couple of times that she'd like to see me find somebody nice and have some kids, but she knows not to rush it by trying to set me up with people. Granddad's a lot more sanguine about the whole thing. He figures that when it's time, it's time. I'm an elf, so I have the luxury of time.

Gah, sorry to get wrapped up in the reminiscing. Back to the story.

Hoho came jandering into my doss and sat down on the couch as I went back into the kitchen. My furniture is big enough to accommodate large folks (like trolls—I had one as a teammate back in Ottawa), but I still winced when Hoho flopped down. He's human—but he's still damn big. Almost 2 meters tall. Big enough to be a troll.

"What's for dinner?" He called into the kitchen as I popped another foodpack into the microwave.

"Nutrisoy," I shot back. "I can't afford the real stuff much anymore, remember?" I came out with two plates that had something that looked like real steak-and-potatoes on them. Yum yum, soy protein—cheap to produce, nutritious, and it even tastes like the real stuff. But it's not the real stuff, so it's cheaper. "Here."

Hoho laughed as he took his plate, a big booming laugh that I swear made my windows rattle. "That's OK, my friend. Coming from you, I'm sure that it's a five-star gourmet experience."

"Flatterer." I pulled my ottoman up to the coffee table and we started eating. "So what brings you back to the Cities?"

"Fate, dear Neal. Fate." Hoho stood up and wandered into the kitchen. "And the need for a nice drink to go with my meal. Where do you have the glasses?" I heard the sounds of cupboards opening and closing. "Never mind, found them." I heard the sounds of two drinks being poured, and Hoho came back in to set two glasses of water down on the coffee table. "I am here because of something that is very important."

"Do tell?" I raised an eyebrow as I forked a mouthful of fake-steak. The texture of Nutrisoy leaves a bit to be desired, because no matter how much they try to make it like the real thing it always feels a little rubbery. At least they have the looks down, if not the texture. "And what is so important that it brought you back from the mysterious East?"

"Newfoundland isn't all that mysterious, my friend. Very nice place, even if the people are a bit odd sometimes." He shoveled in a couple of bites of potatoes, washing it down with some water before looking at me. "I was out there working with some of my fellows to try to clean up a few man-made messes. Toxic shamans are no fun to deal with, I tell you. But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because of something that I found out on the way back."

"And what would that be?" I raised my glass to take a drink—which in hindsight might not have been the best thing to do at that moment.

"The Stanley Cup," he said slowly, "has been stolen."


	2. Silver and Steel, Part 2

"It's time to align your body with your mind  
It's hero time  
It's time to align your body with your mind  
It's time to shine"

"Shine", by the Rollins Band

I dimly remember Hoho telling me that the Cup had been stolen. 

I don't remember too much after that, except getting very wet and getting a bump on my head.

Then I remember Hoho shaking me. "You awake, chummer?" I opened my eyes and looked up to see my old friend staring down at me, looking just a teensy bit concerned. My head hurt. I was flat on my back. And I was going to fraggin' kill my best friend for messing with me like that.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the knot on my head. "Don't ever frag with me like that ever again, Hoho."

"I'm not fraggin' with you," Hoho said as he helped me up off the floor. "I'm telling you the truth. Somebody broke into the vault holding the Cup and stole it."

I sat down on the couch and just stared up at Hoho. I'm not going to lie to you folks—I was in complete and utter shock. I mean, hello? Stanley Cup, hello? Oldest and most storied trophy in the history of sports, hello? Stolen! I couldn't believe somebody fraggin' stole the Stanley fraggin' Cup! I mean, there was that guy from Montreal back in the 20th Century that couldn't deal with Chicago winning that year, but still! It was locked in a vault with all kinds of magical and non-magical protections around it! It was locked up tighter than Saeder-Krupp HQ, and somebody fraggin stole it!

"You have to be kidding, Hoho."

Hoho shook his head. "Not kidding at all. Here," he said as he pushed my plate toward me. "Eat. You'll feel better with some food in you."

To be honest, I really didn't feel much like eating at that particular moment. But I forced myself to start chowing down as Hoho kept talking. Hoho is bigger than me, and I've lost enough wrestling matches with him to know better than to argue.

"I'm not sure where to begin, quite frankly." Hoho tugged on his beard a bit.

"Try at the beginning," I said before shoveling in another bite of my fake-steak. "That's usually a good place to begin."

Hoho tugged on his beard some more, the way he always does when he's pondering something. "Hmmmm…." Then he pushed his plate over toward me. "Finish mine off when you're done with yours." I was about to protest when he patted me on the shoulder and said "You look like you need it."

"Slot and run, Hoho," I said while poking my fork at him. "How'd you find out that the Cup's been stolen?"

He leaned back on the couch and spread his arms across the back. His shirt stretched across his barrel chest. "Well. I was on my way back from out East—heading towards Seattle, actually—when I decided to make a stop in Toronto to check out the Hall. Making the pilgrimage and all." He watched me eat for a moment, until I gave him that 'get the frag on with it' look. "So. I'm in Toronto, and I noticed that the vault was closed. They don't normally close that vault unless the Hall is closed for the day, and there was something that just didn't seem right about that. The Keepers looked nervous. As if something was up, you know?  They're not normally like that."

I finished off my steak and started in on Hoho's. He was right—I was actually very hungry. "So what did you do, hop an astral trip into the vault to check it out?" Hoho just smiled, and I held up a hand. "Say no more. What did you find?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He leaned forward and sat with his forearms on his knees. "I mean, there was a cup there—but it wasn't THE Cup."

I dropped my fork. This was bad.

Let me explain. When a mage or shaman (or, in some cases, an adept) attunes his mind to the astral plane, they can read impressions and auras and stuff. Pretty much everything picks up impressions from the people that handle it, especially if there are strong emotions associated with it—and most especially something like the Stanley Cup, which has absorbed impressions from everybody that's ever handled it, from the Ottawa Silver Sevens right on down to last year's St. John's Mariners (don't laugh, there is indeed an NHL team in Newfoundland). Anyone that's attuned to astral space (like Hoho) can pick up those impressions, and some can get more from those impressions than others. There are even rumors that free spirits lurk around the Cup, attracted by the strong astral signature—but nobody's ever verified it. Or at least, if they have they're not discussing it.

When you hear stories of players and coaches from days gone by saying that the Cup spoke to them, they probably weren't kidding. It was magical even in the day when there was no magic. So if there's a Cup in the vault that doesn't have any kind of astral impressions surrounding it, then it's not The Cup.

Hoho explained how he'd done some poking around to try to find out what happened to the Cup and damn near got geeked by something. He didn't know what it was, only that something kicked him back into his body with some serious authority. Whoever took it didn't want their tracks uncovered.

I sat there quietly for a moment before finally looking at Hoho and saying "So where do I fit in to all this?"

Hoho leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder as he looked me in the eye and said "You're going to get it back—I think you're just the boy for the job! You and me and a couple others." He smiled. "Whaddaya say? It'll be fun."

I sat back in my chair and sighed. "I don't know, Hoho. I mean, how are we supposed to find whoever stole the Cup?"

"Oh, I've done some checking around. Talked to a few people. We'll find it, and we'll get it back."

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. I mean, me and Hoho? Finding the Stanley Cup AND getting it back to the Hall? I figured that after everything I went through, people will simply assume that *I* was the one who stole it. I mean, who better to hang the caper on than a supposedly embittered ex-Calder Trophy winner? "You can't be serious, Hoho. Us? We're going to get it back? We don't even know where it is—and when you tried to find out where it was you almost got yourself killed!"

I was just getting ready to ask why we shouldn't just let the proper authorities handle the situation and not get our hoops shot off when my phone rang. Hoho leaned over to answer it.

"Hello?"

A ragged-looking individual popped up on the screen. "This line isn't secure. Find someplace and call me back."

The line went dead, and Hoho looked back at me. "We need to find someplace to call her back from. And we need to find a fixer so we can get the gear we need…"

"For frag's sake, Hoho!" I had jumped up and was yelling at this point. I found myself wanting to go with him, but I was just running my mouth at this point. "I can't just up and leave my job and go running off in search of the Stanley freaking Cup!"

"Neal, you look stupid when you do that. Stop it."

"Do what?" I was pretty wired at this point and probably sounded quite hysterical.

"You're jumping up and down. Stop it."

"I am not!" Actually I was.

"Are too. Stop it."

I jumped up and down and was probably turning a lovely shade of red. "I am not!"

Light exploded in front of my face and I staggered backwards. Hoho stood and caught me before I fell over again. He pulled me over to the couch and made me sit down. Then he sat down next to me and looked me right in the eye. "Now that I have your attention, will you listen to me?"

I put my head back and closed my eyes—he used a light stun on me, and it was making me dizzy as hell. I nodded slightly and concentrated on making the spinning stop. As the static filtered out of my head, I heard Hoho speaking to me.

"That was a decker buddy of mine. I need to call her, but I need a line that can't be traced. She can help us, but only if we can get back to her."

I rolled my head in Hoho's general direction. "Let me clear my head a bit. Then we'll go." Hoho patted me on the shoulder.

"Sorry about that."

I nodded and waved a hand. "So ka." The fog lifted, and I slowly stood up. "Let's go—I think I know someplace we can go to call your buddy."

Slot and run—Hoho and I wound up cruising across the river on Bolo, to St. Paul. Bolo's my bike, a Harley Scorpion—an old Draft Day gift from Nana. It's great, and armored to boot. Remember that bit of data, chummers—it becomes important later. Traffic was fairly light, given the hour (the tail end of evening rush), so it didn't take long to get to our destination.

I pulled up at the security perimeter and took my helmet off. I punched a couple buttons and gave a winning smile to the cameras. A slightly tinny voice echoed from the little speaker on the gate:

"Please identify."

"Hedican, Neal Liam. One guest."

"Please look into the eye piece outlined in red. Do not blink or move while scan is performed."

I put my right eye up near the eyepiece and let the system scan my retina. It seemed to take forever before I heard the two beeps and the sound of the perimeter opening to let me drive through.

"Scan complete. Welcome, Neal Hedican. You are responsible for the conduct of your guest while inside the perimeter."

I blinked a time or two to let my eyes get readjusted to the evening twilight and put my helmet back on before roaring on up the street.

I pulled up into the driveway of the large white house toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Granddad and Nana were sitting on the porch swing together. He was wearing a pale green shirt and a pair of shorts, since it was still pretty warm out. Nana was wearing a simple grey smock over a white long-sleeve shirt, and was barefoot. She likes to go barefoot when it's warmer outside. Sometimes when it's not so warm outside. Granddad looked a little unsettled by something, and Nana was quietly sitting next to him holding his hand.

Granddad just turned 91—but he doesn't look a day over 50 (according to Nana, he has some latent elf blood in him—elves are long-lived). I'm often told that I'm the spittin' image of Granddad when he was younger, except my ears are pointy and I have slightly almond-shaped eyes. Tall, well-built, and distinguished-looking with some silver in the temples of his dark hair and spry green eyes—that's my Granddad. He still works out every day, plays in an over-60 mundanes-only (no cyberware/no magic) hockey league, and the ladies just love him. Nana finds it all very amusing. But then, Nana finds just about everything very amusing.

Nana's aged pretty well too—but she's had a couple of rejuvenation treatments. She's small and a little stocky, with a heart-shaped face and large hazel eyes. But she's still pretty (and yes, I've seen pictures of her in her younger days), and she's one of the wisest people I've ever met. Her hair's gone completely silver, and she usually wears it in a long ponytail so that it'll stay out of her face.

I parked Bolo and walked up onto the porch. Granddad had a glass in his hand with a clear amber liquid in it, and he was staring off into space. I pointed and raised an eyebrow at Nana, who mouthed "whisky" at me as she got up. "Neal! How's our favorite grandson this evening?" We hugged, and she looked over at Hoho. "And there's somebody I haven't seen in a long time. Come here and let me give you a hug, Hohiro."

Yes, that's Hoho's real name—Hohiro. His father used to work for Renraku, and apparently named him for a supervisor that gave him his raise the night Hoho was conceived. Hoho loves to tell the story, like it's a joke that never gets old. Nana's the only one that's allowed to call him Hohiro. Remember that.

When Hoho hugged Nana, he almost swallowed her up. He's that big, folks—like I told you, he's so big that he's almost a troll. She looked up at him and said "How are you, my dear boy? It's been a while."

"I've been doing well, Nana." All of us kids call her Nana, we have ever since we were little. Nana is a shaman too, like Hoho—but her totem is Wolf.

She patted him on the arm. "Excellent. Go in the house and get yourself something to eat," she said before dropping her voice. "…and bring out something for Neal's Granddad too. He hasn't eaten in a while."

"I heard that," came the response from the porch swing, in the slow voice of an inebriated man trying to sound sober. "I said I'm not hungry." I sighed deeply as Nana gave Hoho a knowing look. He whispered something to Nana, and she nodded to him. Hoho nodded and went into the house as I pulled up a stray porch chair and sat down in front of the swing.

"Hi Granddad." I looked up at him, the way I used to when I was little. "It's good to see you again."

Granddad set his drink down on a small table by the swing. "Hi Grandson." He smiled a little and continued speaking in that slow manner as he leaned over slightly to give me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

I sighed deeply. "The Cu—"

"I know." Granddad nodded. "I know." He sighed and looked off to his right as night finally settled over the neighborhood. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

Nana sat down next to Granddad and patted him on the shoulder. Her hand was glowing slightly. "Talk to your grandson, Bret." The glow faded from her hand as Hoho came out of the house with a sandwich on a plate, which he handed to me. I set it down on the table next to Granddad's drink as Nana spoke again. "And please eat something." Granddad got a slightly perturbed look on his face as he looked back at Nana, who smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll go keep Hohiro company while you talk."

Now, at this point you're probably thinking that there's something weird going on with my family. You're right. Nana and Granddad are old friends—we're talking going back well over 50 years—and they've been living in the same house ever since Papa died while on a run in Chicago in '58. Grandmom and several of my cousins passed away in '56 when a VITAS-III outbreak raced through the Cities (I don't think Granddad's completely gotten over it), and Nana and Papa had moved closer to the Cities to be there for Granddad and all the rest of us. They never smothered us—they just made it clear that if they needed anything that they'd be there. Then Papa died while on a bug hunt, and everybody was there for Nana. Granddad let her move in so that she'd be sure to have a place to live, since there was some question about whether or not she'd be able to keep her place in Wayzata.

This brings us back to Granddad and me on the porch, with Nana inside chatting with Hoho.

"I want you to stay here, Neal. In the Cities." Granddad was sober now, courtesy of Nana's magic. "Let Lone Star find the Cup." I looked up at Granddad. His jaw was set, and he had a grim look. I knew that look—it was his "don't mess with me" face.

"Granddad, I—"

"No." His tone was stern. "I forbid it. I will not have my last grandchild become a shadowrunner."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed deeply. This was not going to be fun.

"Why don't you want me going to find it?" I took his hand—I couldn't think of anything else to do. "It's not like Papa going into Bug Cit—"

I forgot what a strong grip Granddad still has. It hurt like hell when he squeezed my hand. "Keep your voice down," he hissed. "Do you want to upset your grandmother?" He let go when he saw me wince. "She still hasn't gotten over the death of your grandfather, and I don't want to see her put through that again. Leave it alone, Neal. If your friends want to run off and get themselves killed on a fool's errand, let them. But I don't want you going with them."

This is where it gets tricky.

Papa and Nana were shadowrunners, back in the day. Shadowrunners are people that do dirty work for others. Corps, private individuals, sometimes even a government or two. They live outside the system mostly—though some, like Nana and Papa, live in the system and are just very careful about what jobs to take—and they're usually decently paid. Of course, that pay tends to go for things like keeping cyberware up to date, buying more and better weaponry, snazzier magical implements, and so on. But if you're smart and know the right people, you can actually make a good profit by it. Nana and Papa were smart and knew the right people, but that didn't stop Papa from getting killed, in the end.

Nana never talked about it much, except with Granddad, so I don't know any specifics except that the bugs had something to do with it.

"Granddad…" I stood, and Granddad grabbed my arm tightly.

"Your Nana wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, crying for your Papa. I don't want her crying for you as well." He was almost pleading now, as he relaxed his grip on my arm. "Please, Neal. Don't go."

I opened my mouth to say something else, when the front door opened. Nana came out onto the porch with Hoho, who kept right on going down the steps to wait by my bike. I got up to move back over to the chair I'd been sitting in, but Nana just put a hand on my shoulder as she sat down.

"Hohiro had quite an interesting tale to tell, Neal." She sat back in the chair. "But I'd like to hear what you have to say about it." Granddad sat up, and Nana just put a hand up. "I know your mind on the subject, Bret. But I want to know what our grandson has to say."

I sighed. "Nana, I think it would be better if I stayed here." I looked down at my shoes. I was lying. She knew it, Granddad knew it, and I knew it.

"Look at me, please." I looked up to see Nana looking at me with those wise brown eyes of hers. "Now, Neal. Tell me the truth."

I wanted to stay, wanted to make Granddad feel better knowing that his last grandchild wouldn't go get his hoop shot off in some godsforsaken corner of the world, but I couldn't lie—not to my grandparents. "I have to do this." I looked over at Granddad, who looked like he was about to start spitting nails. "It's the only thing I can do."

Nana smiled and patted me on the shoulder. "Wolf was right, it seems. Well we can't argue with destiny, can we?" She looked over at Granddad. He was livid. She sighed.

I stood. "I'd better go." I took a step toward the steps and stopped when I heard Granddad's voice at my back, cold like an icy winter wind.

"Don't ever come back." I turned to see Granddad glaring at me coldly. "As far as I am concerned, I now have no grandchildren." His jaw was set and his lips were a thin angry line. He was furious, and I don't think I blamed him one bit.

Nana looked over at Granddad. "You don't need to protect me, Bret."

I wanted to leave, but something made me stay there on the porch. I tossed Bolo's keys in Hoho's general direction, and heard him catch them. There was a sudden uneasy silence on the porch, interrupted only by the sound of a cricket chirping somewhere along the side of the house. Nana stood up and looked defiantly at Granddad. "And you sure as hell don't need to punish our grandson for doing what he thinks is right."

"What he thinks is right?! Danielle, do you have any regard for how I feel? Do you know how much it hurts me when I wake up in the middle of the night with you next to me crying for Adrian or reliving that blasted run you two went on? Don't you think I have a say in this?!"

My jaw dropped. Nana and Granddad were…?

"How about the nights when you wake me up crying for Kristi?" The retort came short and sharp, and Nana winced as soon as the words escaped her lips. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." She took the plate and handed it out to me while still looking at Granddad. "Neal, please take this into the kitchen while I have a talk with your Granddad." I looked over to Hoho, who nicked his head back a bit and mouthed "Go on, I'll wait."

I didn't say a word. I took the plate and went inside. I wasn't looking at much of anything when I walked into the house. I went into the kitchen and set the plate down on the counter. I stood there for a long moment, thinking about different things. Perhaps if I hadn't let Hoho in, I wouldn't be disowned now. I should have said no. I should have told Hoho to go on without me. Then Granddad wouldn't hate me, and he and Nana wouldn't be fighting, and…

I started crying. I couldn't help it. Nana and Granddad were the only family I had left, and I was going to lose them because I felt I was doing the right thing. I slumped to the floor and hugged myself and sobbed, like I did when Mom and Dad were killed. I heard footsteps in the kitchen, but I didn't pay any attention to them. I felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me and help me up from the floor, and turned to see Hoho looking at me. He hugged me tight for a moment.

"Here," he said as he handed me a paper napkin. "Dry your eyes."

I took several deep breaths, using my adept's training to regain my composure. "I don't know what I'm gonna do, Hoho."

"Nana sent me in to get you." He patted me on the shoulder as I blew my nose. "She and your Granddad want to talk to you."

Slot and run: Granddad un-disowned me (but he still wasn't happy about the whole thing), Nana gave me the name of her old fixer, and Hoho and I went roaring off to meet with his mysterious decker friend.

There's something weird about meeting up with somebody at a White Castle. Yes Virginia, White Castle still exists in 2061. Of course, their burgers are now soyburgers—but they're still around. She was sitting there in a corner booth, waiting patiently for us as we pulled up. She came out into the lot. Her gait looked a little uneasy, almost like she was under the influence of something.

"I am the Acid Queen." She said slowly as she looked around. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was bedraggled. Her pale complexion was pockmarked and crisscrossed with scars. She looked like a junkie, dressed as she was in ragged clothes and looking unkempt. I looked at Hoho, who put up a hand.

"Good to see you again." Hoho smiled, and was answered with a slight smile. "Casey Jones," he said as he pointed to me. "He's cool. Old friend of mine."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when was Casey spelled to rhyme with "Hedican, N L"? That some sort of new slang?" She looked at me. "You a Brit, rookie?"

It didn't dawn on me that perhaps her appearance was a carefully cultivated ruse until I looked at Hoho and said "You really think we can trust a deckhea—"

I was cut off—almost literally—by the flash of handrazors as she moved faster than I thought capable and placed three of her retractable blades against my throat. "Trust this, chummer" was all I heard. I jerked back as she pulled her hand away and retracted the razors back into her fingertips, then smiled. "Keeps people on their toes."

"She's one of the best, my friend," Hoho said as he turned toward the bike. "Let's move out. We'll meet the rest of the gang on the way."


	3. Silver and Steel, Part 3

"I take time thinking about what I'm gonna have to do   
what it takes, how it is and when I'm gonna light the fuse   
all this push and shoving in the end all amounts to nothing   
I'll never get a second chance looking me in the face"

"Up For It", by Henry Rollins

I love my Nana, but sometimes I wonder….

I had Hoho contact the fixer—Zak was his name. It's my first time running in the shadows, so I figured that it was wise to let an experienced hand lead. Acid Queen stepped off for a moment to access a public Matrix terminal. "I'll meet you later. You have one hour."

"Talk to me." The voice on the other end was gravelly and sounded like too much booze and cheap cigs. The face that matched it wasn't much better off. This was the guy Nana used to work with? I made a "yeegh" face as I stood off to the side.

"Argent sent me." Hoho was pretty to the point. "Said she'd contact you to let you know."

"I think you have the wrong number." Zak started reaching for the "off" button on his comm when Hoho grabbed me and shoved me in front of the public comm.

"This more like what you were expecting?" I flashed the fixer a winning smile. Hey, what did you expect me to do?

Zak laughed and nodded, a raspy gravelly laugh that really got on my nerves. "I've got a razorboy and a wiz set to meet with you—Mauer and Firestorm. They've worked with Argent before, so they're cool." The old fixer nodded a bit before continuing. "They'll be at the Riverwalk at midnight."

Hoho nodded and killed the link. He looked at me and said "Back to your doss, I guess."

The ride home was quick. I got in the door, and damn near fell over when I saw the giant wasp hovering in my living room.

Actually, it wasn't a wasp—it was a wasp spirit. BIG difference—you can't get rid of spirits with a can of hairspray, and regular wasps don't have claws that can rip you to shreds.

"Get down!" 

I dodged to the side when I heard Hoho's voice behind me and rolled just out of the way of a swipe from the spirit. I leapt to my feet and grabbed the only thing within reach—an old hockey stick that I had leaning up against my bookshelf. Hoho let loose with a bolt of mana from one hand while holding a fetish in the other. The fetish crumbled as the spell went off, and the spirit staggered for a moment. I concentrated a moment, focusing myself like I used to before a game. I felt a rush of speed and strength as I brought the stick up and then down on the back of the spirit's neck. I heard a resounding crunch, and the spirit crumbled to the floor and vanished as its neck snapped.

"Be careful. Where there's one there's bound to be more." Hoho stepped through the door as a loud buzz and the smell of ozone coming from back by my bedroom heralded the arrival of another spirit. 

Before Hoho could react I spun around and rolled to face the oncoming bug, coming up to crosscheck it under the jaw as I kicked out. I felt a burn in my leg as its stinger tore through my jeans and made a nice gash in my leg, followed by a wet crunch as I kicked the spirit in the midsection and dented its carapace. It swiped at me with its claws and grappled my stick, trying to sting me again. I kicked the stinger out of the way and swung the stick—and the spirit—around as Hoho let fly with another mana bolt. The spirit shrieked as it was torn apart by the blast of magical energy, and I semiconsciously leapt to one side in case Hoho let fly with another one. 

I shuddered slightly as the burn in my leg intensified and started spreading. I tried to fight the effects of the venom, tried to stifle the shakes as I broke out in a sweat. I dropped the stick on the floor, and felt Hoho's hands on my shoulders. I felt the room spinning and saw my vision start to fade as I slumped to the floor, then I felt the blackness being driven back as Hoho cast a detox spell on me.

"You're going to be OK," Hoho said quietly. "I don't think there'll be any more."

I sat up against the wall and picked my stick up off the floor. It was an antique, one of the old graphite-reinforced ones that Granddad used when he played. I carefully looked it over for breaks and found none, then put it back up by the bookshelf and looked back at Hoho. "Mind if I rest here a while?"

Hoho chuckled and patted me on the shoulder. "It's your doss. I'll go get your kit." He got up and went back into the spare bedroom. I checked my leg out. My leg was bleeding a bit from the gash made by the stinger, but I'd live. I heard the sounds of somebody rummaging around in the closet, and Hoho came out lugging my old gear bag. I hadn't seen it in over a year. I wasn't sure I wanted to see it again, but Hoho and I both knew that I'd need it.

I slowly got up and took the bag from him, and hefted it. I knew that everything was still in there, just the way I had it when I came back from Ottawa. Sticks, pads, skates, everything—except, of course, a jersey. "Let's go." I sighed deeply and took one last look at my apartment before I turned off the lights and closed the door. I'd sent a message to work to put in for my vacation time, so I wasn't worried too much. About work, anyway. If the bugs were involved in this, then that was a completely different story.

Acid Queen was waiting for us outside in a beat-up old van that used to have the DocWagon logo on the side. "You're late," she said as we stowed my gear bag in the back of the converted ambulance and climbed in.

"We got in a fight." Hoho snorted as he said it. "A meatspace fight, not a virtual fight."

Acid Queen shrugged. "A fight's a fight—matrix or meat, the loser's still dead." She started the van and put it in gear. She looked down at my leg and said "You be OK, greenie?"

"He'll be fine," Hoho said. "Drive."

Acid Queen shrugged again and pulled out. "You're the boss."

We met with the remaining team members at the Riverwalk. The Riverwalk is a place down by the Mississippi River that's done up all nice and touristy. It's a good place to meet people, as there are cafes and shops and little parks. Mauer and Firestorm were waiting for us at the section in front of the Ares Center, holding hands and leaning over the railing to watch pleasure boats cruise by on the river. They were a matched set—a street samurai and a combat mage. Jeans, matching black Maria Mercurial (does anyone ever listen to her anymore?) t-shirts, combat boots, and dark longcoats. They looked strange, matching the way they did, but if Nana trusted them then I figured I could trust them.

Mauer, the street sam, was a huge human. Not troll-size, mind you. Just a big beefy mass of chipped-out muscle with a rugged square jaw and deep-set sky-blue eyes. He wore his dark hair cropped fairly close, and had a semi-permanent five o'clock shadow. His voice was deep and slightly rumbly. Mauer is German for "Wall"—and he was a wall, all right.

Firestorm, the mage, was far more pleasant to look at. She was human too—tall and lithe, with flaming red hair and bright green eyes. She spoke with a slight lilt to her voice, sounded faintly Celtic. She put her hand out when we introduced ourselves. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She smiled a very pretty smile and said "You look a chip off the old block, Casey. You have your grandmother's eyes."

I smiled a bit and blushed. "Thank you."

Hoho coughed slightly behind me. "Our ride's waiting. We should get this show on the road as soon as we can."

Acid Queen pulled the van over in front of the White Castle and turned the engine off. "OK, here's what we have." She pulled out a datachip and slotted it into a jack attached to the dashboard of the van. "I did a lil' poking around while you two," she looked at me and Hoho, "were off having your fun. The individuals that pulled off that job did a really wiz job—the logs at Hydro Canada showed a momentary dip in the power grid around the site of the theft, which took care of the mundane security systems." She pulled out a small keyboard and punched up a couple of keys. "The magical defenses were another matter entirely—apparently they were overwhelmed by a massive assault." She looked at all of us and shook her head a bit. "At least, that's according to what gossip I could pick up on a couple of the wiznets."

A small map of North America came up, overlaid by a grid. The view centered somewhat south of us and started to zoom in as the decker continued speaking. "According to rumor, legend, and a few favors I called in, there's been a large upsurge of magical activity in a large Metroplex a lil' southeastish of here. If the info that's been given to me is correct, it would seem that some old friends have decided that they want to come out and play again, and they're planning to use your little bauble as a focus in the middle of their new playpen." She looked at me with a curious expression on her face, a slight twinkle in her perpetually bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes as the map started to track over the continent and zoom in. "Is that thing really a solid hunk of silver, kid? I bet mages would just kill to get their hands on it."

Mauer groaned. Firestorm groaned. Hoho just said "oh drek…" and put a hand to his face as he stared at the screen. I felt sick as the view settled in on a city on the shores of Lake Michigan.

Chicago.

Now I know why Granddad didn't want me to go, why those wasp spirits attacked me in my apartment—we were going to be facing the bugs.


	4. Silver and Steel, Part 4

"your number is one  
your mind has decided  
your number is one  
you are undivided  
for you there is but one direction  
your number is one"

"Your Number Is One", by the Rollins Band

Hoho looked back at me from the front of the van. "You don't have to come along, you know." The streetlights reflected off the fetishes adorning his vest, and the green glow from the data display in the van cast a pallor on his big round face. "Seriously Casey, I had no idea…"

"I'm going on this run." I looked at Hoho. "Don't even try—"

"No, really. We'll drop you off at your place and you won't have to worry about it." He had an almost pleading look on his face. "Your Granddad would never forgive me if anything happened to you."

"I have a feeling that if anything happened to me, it'd be because you died before I did." I sat back in the van and looked up at the roof with a deep sigh. "So you won't have to worry about Granddad."

"Argent." Mauer said it calmly. I swear, the man showed almost no emotion. "If we're going up against the bugs then we'll need to see her before we leave town. She'll have stuff that Zak won't be able to get for us."

I nodded. Acid Queen started the van back up and pulled away from the curb. I didn't say anything as we drove to Granddad and Nana's neighborhood—Hoho gave all the directions. All I did was stick my head out the driver's side window and get us into the gate. Nana was already there waiting for us. She sighed deeply when she saw who was with me and Hoho.

"Argent." Mauer nodded in Nana's direction. "It's been a while."

"If you and Firestorm are here to see me that can only mean one thing." She sighed deeply and looked at me with glistening eyes. "Come in. I'll see what I can do for you."

Not much was said as we quietly went into the house. Granddad was already in bed, so hopefully there wouldn't be a repeat of the drama from earlier in the evening. We brought several boxes and crates up from the basement of the house, and loaded them in the back of the van. The last of them had been loaded when I heard the front door of the house open again.

I didn't even have to ask. I looked up after closing the back of the van to see Granddad leaning up against one of the pillars on the porch in his pajama bottoms, watching us. Nana went up onto the porch, and they spoke to each other quietly for a moment. There was no apparent tension between them, thankfully. "Let's go." Mauer's voice was slightly raspy in my left ear. I went around to the passenger side of the van and started to climb in when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "No," Mauer said. "We have somebody to talk to before we leave."

Mauer, Firestorm, and I walked up to the porch and stood there quietly. I looked down at my shoes for a moment, and then looked up into Granddad's eyes. He had an arm around Nana, holding her protectively. They both came down off the porch and stood before me. 

"So, I hear they're calling you Casey Jones now." Granddad sounded a little amused by my new street name.

I nodded. "Yeah, yeah they are." Casey Jones was a character from an old kids' trid. He was a hockey player too.

There was an awkward silence before Granddad put a hand on my shoulder and said, "I still don't approve of this, Neal. You realize that." There was no anger in his voice—only sadness.

I nodded slightly as I looked down at my feet. "I understand."

Nana hugged me tightly and kissed me on both cheeks. "Mauer and Firestorm will brief you on the way down. Listen to them," she said softly. "They got me out of Chicago alive, and if you listen to them they'll get you out too."

"What about Papa?"

Nana held my face in her hands and smiled sadly. "Don't worry about Papa. Worry about Neal." Then she hugged me again and stepped back. Granddad and I didn't say anything—we hugged, and he stepped back and put an arm around Nana again. I turned and looked at the dynamic duo. 

"Let's go." I turned back briefly to see Granddad and Nana watching us. For a brief moment, I wanted to stay—but I knew that I couldn't do that.

As we left, I found myself praying that we'd all come back alive and in one piece.

=======================================

Let me tell you a little story. It's true, all of it. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Back in the 40s, a group called the Universal Brotherhood sprang up—first in the California Free State and Seattle, then eventually worldwide. They preached love and togetherness and compassion and all that shiny happy drek that people need in this chaotic day and age. They helped the sick and ran clinics for people addicted to 2XS, this bleeding-edge simsense that really better than the standard Better-Than-Life stuff. You want to talk about getting truly lost in a fantasy, 2XS was it.

The UB, it turned out, was a front for the bugs. The poor slags that came to the Brotherhood for help wound up becoming hosts for insect spirits in the giant hives hidden behind the UB storefronts, and nobody bothered to check it out until missing persons reports started coming in a regular avalanche across North America. That was when the FBI started to act, shutting down UB installations and clearing out the hives quicker than you can say "Dunkelzahn".

Chicago had the largest of the hives—we are talking fraggin' huge, a giant hive with dozens of sub-hives. The feds walled off much of Chicago in about '57 or so (after some idiots from Knight Errant botched a bug-hunt and loosed a ton of bug spirits across the city) and called it the Containment Zone, claiming that there was a possible VITAS outbreak. There were rumors floating around that a shadowrunning team sent in by Ares Macrotechnology was trapped inside the Zone while fighting the bugs and had detonated a subtactical nuke inside the main hive under Cermak Street. The rumors were all true—but people didn't find that out until later. 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on who you ask—the blast was pretty contained. But that didn't help the people of Chicago, who were terrorized for the next three years and change by roving swarms of insect spirits and petty self-crowned warlords that decided to carve up Chicago for themselves. The wall around the Containment Zone finally came down after Ares sent dozens of teams (both corp-slaves and shadowrunners) in to clear out the hives in Chicago. The problem was pronounced solved, and everybody lived happily ever after.

Right.

Now, what does that mean for the five of us in the converted DocWagon van, you ask? More importantly, what does this have to do with the Stanley Cup?

I'm so glad you asked that question.

The Stanley Cup is a 16-kilo hunk of solid silver. I mean, there's a base that they fit the rings around, but that base is hollow. The rest of it—the bulk of the trophy's weight—is all silver. Acid Queen was right—there are indeed mages that would kill to get it, but for one thing: The Cup has been bombarded for well over 150 years by the raw emotion and passion of millions, especially all the people that have touched and held it. Remember what I said earlier about it being magical even when there was no magic in the world? It would make one hell of a focus, but no mage or shaman in his right mind would dare try to use it because of the spirits and astral impressions surrounding it—the "background count" is just too damn high.

Of course, it can be argued that the bugs aren't exactly in their right minds. And it's pretty clear that they weren't all cleared out of Chicago, either. 

There's more to it of course, but I'll save it for later.

Our target was an abandoned sports arena in downtown, on the corner of Warren Boulevard and Madison Street. According to what Acid Queen had been able to find out (and according to what a few city spirits told Firestorm and Hoho), this was the location of a new Wasp hive—and it was big. The bugs, so it was said, had found something big to act as a focus, making them stronger and more powerful than your garden-variety insect spirits. And they had a Queen.

When a bug hive has the Queen spirit, that's bad. It means that the hive is harder to get rid of. A LOT harder.

We got in to Chicago in the wee hours of the morning. I caught some sleep on the ride down as Acid Queen drove, and dreamed of skates and ice and spiders and wolves and bears (oh my!) and then I felt Mauer shaking me awake.

"Time to get up." He'd changed into tight-fitting black BDUs and had on a headset and throat mike. "One last briefing, then we roll."

When I woke up yesterday morning, I was thinking about what I'd be doing when I got off work that night. Now I was waking up in the back of a converted DocWagon van in Chicago and getting ready to suit up so I could get ready to fight a Wasp hive for possession of the oldest trophy in professional sports.

It was all so strange and alien—but then, these are the bugs we're talking about. They're strange and alien.

The plan was simple: Break in. Firestorm, Mauer, and I would cause a distraction. Acid Queen would cause whatever havoc she figured she could cause. And Hoho would get the Cup from its hiding place with the help of whatever spirits he could scare up.

Silly us, we forgot the old combat axiom: No plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

======================================

The doors opened on the side of the van, and Mauer and Neal headed around to open the back of the van and start unpacking crates. The assortment of hardware was small; spray canisters of nicotine sulfate with directional nozzles, belts of ammunition, a minigun, and a couple of long flat boxes.

Neal picked up a box and looked at it. "What's this?"

Mauer took the box from him and opened it. Inside were two dozen long brown tubes and two lighters. The street samurai took a lighter and put it in one of his pockets. Then he took several of the tubes from the box and spread them out among several other pockets. "Cigars. The smoke slows the bugs down. The nicotine is insecticide—hits their nervous system and rips it apart." He went back to loading guns and preparing blades for combat, oblivious to the elf standing before him.

Firestorm drew a ritual circle on the ground with some silver paint. When the circle was complete, she spread her arms and started chanting in the ancient language of magic.

Neal pulled his gear bag out of the back of the van and lugged it around to the side, where Acid Queen had jacked into a public-access Matrix terminal. He looked around for a moment, then started to strip. He placed his clothes to one side after he took them off, then took several slow breaths and concentrated to center himself. The young elf took a skintight black body stocking out of the bag and put it on, focusing on the feel of the breathable spandex against his skin. He cleared his mind as he continued to dress—garter belt, stockings, pads, socks, pants. Neal reached in and touched the skates in his bag, to move them to one side so he could reach his gloves. He looked down and paused for a moment, then took the skates out of the bag and set them next to his helmet.

Currents of mana started crackling inside the circle as Firestorm chanted the summoning ritual. Chunks of plascrete, junk, and trash were drawn into the circle, swirling around each other and coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape which rose up and towered over the mage as she completed the spell that called it forth. She stood slowly, fighting off the draining effects of her summoning spell as the city spirit stood there silently.

Hoho took two spray canisters from a crate in the back of the van and set them down next to Neal. He took several cigars and the second lighter from the opened box and stashed them in various pockets and pouches on his person.

Neal reached into his bag and took out a hockey stick. Gleaming coppery filaments shone on the blade and shaft of the stick as Neal fitted a directional nozzle to the top of one of the canisters and set it aside before taking a roll of black stick tape from his bag. He sprayed some of the thick insecticide onto the blade of the stick, letting it dry and become slightly tacky before wrapping the center of the blade with the tape. He sprayed the tape with more of the stuff before handing the canister to Hoho, who started to spray a couple of combat knives.

Mauer's watch beeped as the runners completed their preparations. Acid Queen's jaw was a somewhat slack as she continued to navigate the Matrix. The rest of the team gathered around Mauer.

"Acid Queen's going to be shutting down the power to the building. We go in. Firestorm and I create the distraction. Casey and Hoho go to get the magoffin. We get out of the building, Acid Queen places one last call, and we let Lone Star come in and mop up." He looked around. "If there are no questions, let's get started."


	5. Silver and Steel, Part 5

"I'm alive for you. 

I'm awake because of you.  
I'm alive I told you…."

"Awake", by Godsmack

The lights dimmed in the area of Warren and Madison at 3:47 AM Chicago time. The power dip was enough to reset any mundane security systems extant in the building—that they also reset all the other security systems in the area was of little consequence.

At 3:47:30, a hulking city spirit ripped the door of the low square building on the corner of Warren and Madison off its hinges as a large human dressed in tribal leathers and adorned with fetishes and talismans began casting a spell.

At 3:48 AM, a thick coating of ice started to spread over the floor of the building as a tall elf dressed in hockey gear removed the blade guards from his skates and a bulky human in black camo pants and t-shirt strapped cleats onto the bottoms of his shoes.

At 3:48:30, the elf stashed his guards in the waistband of his pants and skated into the building, followed by the black-clad human.

At 3:48:40, the lights came on to illuminate a skating rink, marked for a hockey game. A low buzz permeated the air as skaters dressed in green and gold and blue and red and white and black and orange went through their warm-ups at one end of the ice.

Neal skated to the door of the rink and stopped. He reached out and touched the door. It seemed real enough, even though the information the team had said nothing about a rink in this building. He pushed down on the lever and opened the door, then stepped onto the ice. A single jersey lay draped over the board in front of the bench. A snow-white jersey, with a red-black-white-silver design on the front.

"Mauer? Firestorm? Hoho, you out there?" Neal spoke, to be answered only by a low buzz. The rink had seemed to sink into the ground, and there were bleachers all around that were filling with people.

No, not people. Bugs. Hundreds of them, thousands of them. Bug spirits, both flesh-form and true-form, buzzing in the stands. In a suite at the far end was the largest one of all—the Queen. Neal reached to tear off his throat mike and earpiece, and found them missing. The air of the rink was cold, brisk. It should have been affecting the bugs, but they didn't seem the least bit discomfited.

Neal was alone on his end of the ice. He looked at the far end, and saw some of the numbers. 99. 77. 21. Two wearing 9. 66. 33. 22. 4. 29. All of them dressed in colors and wearing crests that echoed from the pages of history. He looked down at the jersey on the bench, and noted that the crest and colors on it had no representation at that far end of the ice. There was a number on this jersey as well—6. He picked it up and turned it over, noting with some mild amusement that the name on the back was his own. Somebody had known he was coming, and had obviously prepared a show for him.

He pulled the jersey on over his pads and looked up to see players wearing his colors materialized on the ice in front of him, engaging in their own warm-ups. He recognized them all, from old photographs and stories that his grandfather had told him—stories from the Fifth World, a time when the last true vestiges of magic was held by a 16-kilo piece of silver that men willingly, almost gleefully sacrificed their bodies and their hearts and in some cases their minds for.

He looked around again as he semiconsciously put a leg up on the boards and started stretching out. The air seemed a little chillier all of a sudden. Everything had an ethereal quality to it—as if he was here and not here.

=============================

Neal had barely gotten two feet into the building when the jolt hit him, knocking him unconscious. He dropped like a stone and slid a foot or two more before coming to a stop, flat on his back. Mauer spun around, his katana in one hand and Predator III in the other. "Man down!" he barked into his throat mike as he moved crouched in a fighting stance near the elf's unconscious form.

"Don't touch him." 

The response came in unison from Hoho and Firestorm as they entered the building, stepping gingerly on the ice-covered floor. Hoho knelt down next to Neal and levered one of his eyes open. "Frag." He looked up at Mauer. "We can't move him." The Bear shaman looked down at Neal and felt for a pulse. "He's alive, but something's dragged him into astral space—if we move his body it could wind up killing him."

The street samurai cursed. He'd not bargained on this.

"Plan B, people. Hoho, you guard Casey. Firestorm, see if you can set up some kind of perimeter. We'll have to wait on the Acid Queen before we can do anything else."

=============================

"Whaddaya say, Hedi?"

Neal looked over his shoulder at the blonde man stretching out next to him. There was a smile gracing his pixyish china-doll face and a twinkle in his hazel-grey eyes. Neal raised an eyebrow and simply asked, "Where am I?"

His teammate's eyes widened, jaw dropping slightly as he gave Neal a look of complete disbelief. "Don't tell me you forgot—it's Game 7! Tonight we play for all the marbles, remember?"

Neal blinked a couple of times, and then looked around the arena again. The bugs in the stands had become people, spectators at a hockey game. He looked into the glass behind the bench and saw a face that was very familiar, but was not his. He didn't have a goatee, didn't have slightly arched eyebrows, his ears bore more than hints of Elven heritage, and he wore his hair a lot longer.

"Oh, right. How silly of me." Neal smiled slightly, masking his confusion. "Sorry, I was a little distracted."

The two men shared a laugh as they finished their stretching exercises. Neal took his place in the warm-up rotation, taking a few shots first on the little goalie with grubby pads and nondescript teakettle helmet, then on the tall ebon-skinned goalie with immaculate cat-motif pads and gleaming painted sleek state of the art helmet. He snagged a puck and went to the neutral zone with it, performing an elaborate puck-handling routine that he had learned as a child. He skated around, concentrating on the game to come and trying to remember everything his grandfather had ever told him about the high and far-off times of his days playing in the Fifth World.

=============================

Acid Queen drifted lazily through the dark spaces of the Matrix, past icons representing corps and governments and other drifters. Her icon—an LSD molecule wearing a crown of thorns—was distinctive, inasmuch as every other user icon in the Matrix was distinctive. She drifted through the LTGs and PLTGs from Chicago to Denver, the Treaty City. A haven of neutrality in the middle of the Native American Nations, jointly administered by the UCAS and the NAN, but in reality home to smugglers and drug-runners and shadowrunners of all sorts—a virtual Seattle, without the force of UCAS law holding it together. In another time and place, some would have referred to it as "a wretched hive of scum and villainy". 

It was home to the one source of information she needed to access: Shadowland, the major source for underground information in the Sixth World. If you wanted to get the scuttlebutt on something, you came to Shadowland—but you had to know people to get the access codes to the data haven, and you had to be known to the SysOps. Acid Queen was very well known in these parts.

In realspace, Acid Queen slotted a new program into her cyberdeck. In the Matrix, her icon turned into a classic femme fatale wearing a tight-fitting tie-dyed dress. The crown of thorns on her head turned into a pillbox hat. She stepped through the door of the nightclub, regarding the doorman with a cool glance as she paid her cover charge. The doorman nodded and let her beyond the velvet rope, past the throngs of people clamoring to get in. The darkened nightclub approximated a popular nightspot in Seattle, complete with neon and laser-light wall adornments, pumping dance music, and wall-to-wall people—all logged into Shadowland. 

She walked through the press of people to the back of the club, looking for a specific table. She found it easily enough—a gaunt black-clad mage sat in the booth with his back to the wall, observing the decker carefully. His face was pale, his ghost-grey eyes sunken and ringed by dark circles. She sat down at the table and took one of the mage's hands. "Hello Arawn."

He turned his head to look at her. "Hello, my Queen." His hands were cold. "I did not expect you to come."

"Liar." Acid Queen afforded herself a slight smile. "You knew I'd be here." She looked around for a moment before continuing. "And I think you know why I'm here, too."

The mage's icon waved a hand dismissively. "What happens in Chicago is of no consequence to me."

She pursed her lips. "That's drek. You obviously have a vested interest in this, and I know you still at least care about me or you wouldn't have bothered showing up."

The mage sighed. "That was years ago. Before…"

The decker reached out and brushed back a lock of the mage's hair. "I know. But that was then—this is now, and I need to know what you know."

==============================

"Where's Acid Queen?" Mauer's question was curt, delivered with a slight edge of nervousness.

Hoho pointed out the door. "Still jacked in." The large shaman looked round. "No sign of the bugs. I thought this was supposed to be a big hive."

A faint buzzing sound echoed through the halls, interspersed with the sounds of footsteps on plascrete.

"Perhaps," Firestorm rejoined as she stepped over Neal's unconscious form, "you may have spoken too soon." Mauer holstered his pistol and hefted his katana as his female companion crouched and began chanting. Hoho sat next to Neal's unconscious body and chanted softly. He soon fell unconscious himself, leaving Mauer and Firestorm alone to deal with the pair of insect-man monstrosities lurching down the hall toward them.

Mauer scanned around the room, switching his cybernetic eyes to use their thermographic capabilities. Firestorm could handle the two flesh-form insect spirits—Mauer, however, saw several true-form spirits buzzing toward them. Man-sized wasps, the spirits stood out against the slowly melting ice that still covered the floor. His wired muscles burned as he tensed, ready to spring.

Firestorm reached forward and cut loose with twin blasts of mana, knocking both flesh-form spirits down the hallway. Her hands were ablaze with the raw stuff of magic, illuminating her midlength flame-red hair and pale freckled complexion and deep green eyes as she prepared to cast again. Another twin blast of mana issued forth from her hands, incinerating the insect-man hybrids as they slowly got up from the floor and started to lurch back toward her.

Mauer rolled forward and sprang up, slicing into one of the true-form spirits with his nicotine-laced katana. The spirit shrieked as the concentrated poison uncoupled its nervous system. Sticky ichor mingled with the melting ice as the body fell backwards, drifting lazily over the ice as its muscles spasmed uncontrollably in their death throes. The corpse came to rest against the wall as the street samurai quickly sliced through two, then three, then four more spirits. Once, twice, thrice. His wire-enhanced reflexes and reaction times turned him into a whirlwind of death as he deftly spun on the ice-coated floor, his ice-cleats affording him purchase on the slick surface as he battled the wasps.

===============================

Hoho stood and looked around. It was not very light inside, the last time he looked. Now there were lights on, and though he was in astral space the air was a little chilly. There was a faint buzz in the air. He heard the sounds of skates on ice and bodies on boards and pucks on sticks coming from behind him. He turned to see seat backs facing him. He walked forward and looked down to see a full-blown hockey rink with players on it. There were spectators in the stands, ushers at the top of each section. Hoho recognized this place. It seemed so very familiar to him, like a page out of the history books.

The big man lumbered down a set of stairs into the bowl of the arena, finding a seat near the ice. He turned to look at the spectator next to him, almost jumping out of his skin when he saw two black multifaceted eyes staring back at him. Hoho raised a hand and prepared to cast a spell, but the spectator simply pointed a clawed hand toward the ice. "Watccchhh…" was all he—it?—said with a slight chittering sound in its voice, before turning back to the rink. Hoho stood and looked around—the "spectators" in the stands all bore some sort of insectoid features, as flesh-form spirits. Mandibles here, antennae there, multifaceted eyes, vestigial wings, spindly legs. All sitting in their seats watching as the game was about to start.

Hoho looked back to the ice, and almost immediately spotted the dark-haired goateed human in the white jersey with the 6 on his back. He squinted slightly and concentrated a bit, and felt his head starting to hurt. He stopped concentrating, and the ache subsided. He sat back to watch, knowing full well who was in that jersey.

================================

"And there's the faceoff, won by Francis, passing it back to Hedican. Hedican taking it up the ice for Jeff O'Neill, who gets pick-pocketed by Orr! Bobby Orr, kicking in the jets and starting up the ice toward the Hurricanes' zone, Ward dropping back to cover him as Kapanen scrambles to back check, he shoots! And Arturs Irbe gloves the puck down, and hangs on for a whistle as Maurice Richard lurks in front of the net looking for a rebound…"

Mauer looked around as he carefully cleaned the ichor off his katana. He reached up and toggled his throat mike to another channel—and the disembodied voice continued. He searched all frequencies, and still he heard the radio call of a hockey game. He and Firestorm looked at each other quizzically, and communicated via hand signals that one would stay while the other did a sweep of the area. Mauer reapplied a sticky coating of concentrated nicotine to his blade, and put it in its scabbard before turning to go down a hallway.

"And Tomas Malec will send the puck up into the opposing zone, where it will be touched up by big Stan Mikita for the whistle, and icing is called for a faceoff in the Hurricanes' zone. The score is tied at zero in the first in this crucial seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals."

Firestorm tried to block out the voice echoing in her ear as she drew a ritual circle around Hoho and Neal, and started to cast a warding spell.

"Gretzky wins the draw, passes the puck back to Bossy, Bossy goes blistering by Wallin, centering pass to Gretzky, who shoots…he SCORRRRRES!! Wayne Gretzky, on a pass from Mike Bossy, makes a beautiful roof shot over Arturs Irbe as Bret Hedican tried to throw himself in front of the puck but couldn't get to it in time, and the Hurricanes are down by 1 with 5:00 to go in the first period!"

================================

Hoho felt his soul shaken by the force of the blast from the large air horn in the rafters of this astral arena. The spectators around him in the stands jumped up and cheered wildly, an almost comical cacophony of clicks and buzzes, chitters and chirps. The man in the blue-and-orange 99 jersey received the congratulations of his teammates as the goal tallied up on the scoreboard. They settled down in unison as the linesman went back to the faceoff circle and prepared for another draw. The players in the white jerseys, who went blistering their way into the enemy zone, won this faceoff. The puck squirted back to the player in the white #6 jersey, who paused for the briefest instant before moving up the ice with a smooth loping stride.

================================

Neal had the puck. He concentrated for a moment, feeling the surge of power through his astral body as he raced up the ice with it. He outstripped his teammates and the other team and was heading for the goal when a shout echoed in his hears.

"Heads up!"

Neal looked up in time to dodge an elbow flung at him by a crew-cut man in a red jersey with a 9 on the sleeve. He got to the right faceoff circle in the opposing zone and ripped off a shot that blistered toward the net and was redirected past the ear of the maroon-and-blue clad goaltender and into the net by a teammate. The red light went on, and Neal threw his arms up in exultation. It felt so good to get on the tally sheet again, to feel his teammates clustering around him to congratulate him. That the spectators booed did not matter to him. He was enjoying the hell out of this, and that was all he cared about.

================================

"Face-off won by Brind'amour, back to Cole, who passes to Hedican. Hedican, racing up the ice into the Avalanche zone, dodges an elbow thrown his way by Rob Blake, lets loose with a wrister, AND HE SCORRRRES! Bret Hedican, with nobody but Rob Blake to cover him, went right in on Patrick Roy to let loose with a wrist-shot on Roy's glove side, and the Hurricanes have tied it at 1 a piece on a deflection by Jaroslav Svoboda; a beautiful response to Peter Forsberg's high shot, and the fans at the Pepsi Center are not pleased. Back with more, after this."

Bret sighed as he sat on the porch listening to the old audio disc. He sipped on a drink, savoring the cool flavor of sugary mint-tinged bourbon on ice as it rolled over his tongue with silky smoky smoothness, and looked off into the Indian summer night towards the south. Towards Chicago.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?"

Bret turned and looked into the eyes of the silver-haired lady standing in front of him—still barefoot and still wearing a simple grey smock. She smiled down at him and sat next to him on the porch swing, curling up next to him as he put an arm around her.

"He's our only grandson. It stands to reason that I'd worry about him." He didn't have to ask if she shared his worry—he knew what her answer would be. She worried about Neal also, even though she would never show it. He took another sip from his mint julep and sighed. "You're terrible, you know."

Danielle looked up at him with bright hazel eyes. "Why?"

Bret smiled and held up the silver julep cup. "You got me hooked on these."

They shared a quiet laugh and gave each other a squeeze. "Nothing the god of mixology would bar me from heaven for, I'm sure. So tell me," she said as she pointed to the player, "what made you drag this out?"

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "I wanted to remember," he said as he set his julep cup down on the small table next to the audio disc player before stretching out and drawing his old friend up to rest her head on his chest. He put both arms around her and started the swing moving slowly, as the game continued to play.

===============================

"Let me see if I have this straight. The bugs are there, in that building in Chicago, and they want to use the Cup as a focus for something—but they're not doing anything with it?" Acid Queen looked incredulously at the pale mage on the other side of the table.

Arawn smiled, revealing slightly elongated canines. "That, O Queen of my heart, is a mystery to me. There is something going on there, not one hundred-fifty feet away from your lovely meat body, which is both strange and wonderful." He kissed her hand delicately, continued kissing his way up her arm to the elbow. "Why did you have to make your real self look like a bag lady?"

The decker said, "Why did you have to make your icon look like your real self?"

The mage stopped his kisses and looked up at her, then sat back with a slight chuckle. "Why not? After all, who is going to believe that a mage infected with Human Metahuman Vampiric Virus would actually enter the Matrix?" He leaned forward slightly and smiled again, flicking his tongue across one of his slightly elongated canines. "But we aren't here to discuss me, my affliction, or the avatar I use when I wear my electrode link to take a foray into the Matrix. We are here because you want to know…"

Acid Queen laughed. "…why I'm in Chicago and why the bugs have an astrally polluted hunk of silver."

"Ah," said Arawn softly, "therein lies the crux of the matter." He smiled again. "For you see, the Stanley Cup is not entirely made of silver. Nor is it really polluted."

"Right—there's the hollow base."

"Forget about the base," he answered as he waved his hand dismissively. "The base is of no consequence. If you ever get a chance to get a good close look at the Stanley Cup..." Arawn raised a stick-thin finger and traced coppery tendrils in the air, tendrils that shimmered in the virtual light of the virtual nightclub. "…you will see what made it magical even in the days of no magic."

Acid Queen sat back, stunned. "You're kidding me."

He nodded. "Orichalcum. An alloy that had not seen in much quantity until the dawning of the Sixth World. The silver used to create the Cup is rife with it. That is why it absorbed so much and has held it so well, my darling Queen." He waved a hand, dismissing the illusion that hung in the air. "It hosts free spirits that have taken on the characteristics of every player and every coach who has ever raised it over his head. It holds their emotions, their happiness, their sadness, and those spirits have kept the bugs at bay in their own hive. For all practical intents and purposes, the Cup is alive."

She shrugged. "So we can just walk in and take it back, then."

"Au contraire, ma belle Reine." The mage shook his head. "The Cup wants to go back to where it belongs, that much I know. But you cannot just walk away with it, not without paying a heavy price—that is what the insects of Chicago did. Heavens only know how many innocents died to bring their soldiers into this world."

"I don't understand."

He laughed. "My dear, how can such a violent person as you not be a hockey fan? It's such a deliciously bloody sport." He leaned forward and spoke softly. "My love, every Keeper of the Cup has been a player from a team that has won it. All others are…shall we say, "rejected" by it—rather violently so." His voice sank to a low purr. "It's very particular. Only those who win it are allowed to touch it."

Acid Queen sighed. "So what you're saying is…."

"…that your little hockey-playing elf is, at this very moment, fighting to prove that he is worthy to lay his little elven hands on the Stanley Cup."

The decker sighed and scratched her forehead. "Wow."

"Yes." The mage smiled softly. "I never was much for hockey, until I saw the Cup for the first time. The spirits around the Cup are most fascinating creatures."

She nodded slowly. "Well, that was…enlightening."

"You're most welcome, my regal tie-dyed angel."

Acid Queen laughed softly. "Flatterer," she said as she prepared to jack out of the Matrix. "I'll see you around sometime." She stood from the table and leaned over to kiss the mage sitting across from her before jacking out.

======================================

"And the score is tied 2-2 in the second overtime period as the Hurricanes prepare for a face-off in their zone, big Josef Vasicek taking the draw against Mario Lemieux…"

Mauer tore out his earpiece as he silently padded through the hallways of the abandoned building. There was no further resistance after the initial insect patrols jumped him and Firestorm near the back entrance, which made the samurai's job that much easier. He rounded a corner and saw eight men wearing deep blue coats, black pants, and white gloves standing quietly around a small round table, hands clasped in front of them. A small circle of light came down from the ceiling to illuminate the table and the object sitting on it.

Mauer stepped toward the doorway of the room and toggled his throat mike to speak, stopping cold when one of the blue-coated men—tall and blond, with ice-blue eyes and a firm Nordic jaw—raised a hand.

"No," was all he said, in a calm voice that rang softly like the deep chime of a muffled church bell as his thin lips unconsciously turned up in a half-smile.

Mauer took another step forward, and found himself blocked, as if a hand was pressing on his chest. He pressed forward, and the man with the upraised hand made a gentle pushing motion. Mauer found himself flung back across the hallway, landing hard against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he shook his head violently to fight back the wave of unconsciousness that threatened to overcome him. He sat against the wall for a moment, and then stood. The man in the blue coat had reassumed his stance in front of the table, staring blankly into space. Mauer heard faint buzzes and clicks and chitters, accompanied by the faint sound of a horn. He grabbed his earpiece and stuck it in his ear.

"…and the play is under review!"

======================================

"The fans in this building are clamoring for a goal, and the Hurricanes are biting their nails as the play goes upstairs for review. It looked like the puck went in, but Arturs Irbe is insisting and Ron Francis is insisting that the puck had stopped a good six inches in front of the goal line even as the Avalanche are celebrating what would be the Cup-winner by Vaclav Nedorost…"

Bret and Danielle hugged each other tightly. It had been many years since they had listened to this old recording, and though they knew how it turned out it always made them nervous.

"…and referee Mike Hasenfratz hands the phone back through to the scorer's table before waving his hands to indicate no goal, and the fans at the Pepsi Center are not happy with that decision. Even above the boos you can hear the collective sigh of relief from the Hurricanes bench as their incredible luck saves them once more, and we go back to the faceoff circle. Vasicek once more taking the draw…"

=====================================

"…against Wayne Gretzky. Gretzky wins the faceoff, passes back to Bourque, who dishes it forward to Richard. Richard is checked hard off the puck by Tanabe, who takes the puck and flips it around the boards to Hedican. Hedican carries the puck to the blue line and passes it off to Cole…"

Acid Queen had jacked out of the Matrix to be greeted by white noise in her ear. When she breached the doorway of the building, the play-by-play sprang to life in her ear. She stopped cold, startled by the sudden burst of sound in her ear.

Firestorm was crouched next to the protective circle she had cast around Hoho and Neal's flesh bodies, listening to the game on her earpiece. She looked up at the decker as she came in. "They're alive. In astral space, but they're both still alive." Neal was sweating, the hot saltwater dripping to the ice underneath his body and adding to the melt.

"I know." She nodded, and then looked around the room before hunkering down next to Firestorm. She idly played with her stringy ratty hair as she listened to the game. What Arawn told her would have to wait.

"Vasicek steals it from Orr, feeds it to the slot…."

=====================================

Neal raced down the ice, his magically boosted muscles working overtime. He had been skating like mad forever, it seemed. He was in astral space, but still his lungs burned and his joints were on fire—and he didn't want to trade it for anything else in the world. This was what his grandfather had done. This was what he was born for. He was in Valhalla, playing the Sport of the Gods, and he was enjoying every minute of it. He felt free. He felt a joy that he hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.

=====================================

The clicking-buzzing-chirping-chittering noises from the stands got louder and louder around Hoho as he watched Neal burn his way down the ice, blasting through everyone that stood in his way. The puck was stolen from a man in black and gold by one of Neal's teammates, who dished it to Neal. Neal took the puck and gave it what looked like the gentlest of pushes right in front of the goaltender in the red-and-blue jersey….

=====================================

"…and they SCORRRRRRE!! Vasicek stole the puck along the far boards, fed it to Hedican at the top of the crease, and at 6:06 of overtime, the Hurricanes have done it again as Bret Hedican tips it past Ken Dryden!!"

Mauer slumped slightly against the wall, breathing an audible sigh of relief. The eight men standing around the table joined hands and bowed their heads. An unearthly glow radiated out from the Cup, a coppery-silvery sheen that joined with the circle of light and started to spread throughout the room. It spilled out through the doorway like a flood of molten light, coursing through the halls and around Mauer, who turned and ran to follow it back to Firestorm. He was suddenly exhausted as the light splashed and poured over him like a slow viscous river and drained him of his energy, but his wires kept his muscles pumping against their will, forcing him to run as the light flowed over and ahead of him. He heard the sounds of cheers and boos. He felt a mix of happiness, sadness, relief, pain, and anguish. Tears unconsciously ran down his cheeks as he ran.

He found Firestorm and Acid Queen slumped against each other, sleeping peacefully. They were covered with a moist copper-tinged silver sheen, a look of tired bliss on their faces. Mauer sank to his knees in front of the two of them. He reached out and took Firestorm's hand, squeezing it gently. The circle on the floor was gone, washed away by whatever magic had been worked by the mysterious blue-coated men, leaving Hoho and Neal lying on the floor unconscious.

Then he heard the shrieks, unearthly shrieks of agony and terror that emanated from every corner of the building. He tried to get up, but couldn't. A hand patted him on the shoulder. He looked up to see a slender dark-haired man looking down at him with wise brown eyes. His upper lip bore a scar from where it had once been split open on the left side, and his faintly rectangular face bore several other less noticeable scars. He smiled softly and spoke with the same clear tone as his blonde counterpart.

"Rest now. It will be over soon."

The three of them looked up at the dark-haired man, who straightened up and walked slowly through the hallway. Mauer opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. He felt only a burning desire to rest.

======================================

Hoho was positive that if he'd been in his meat body, he would have felt his teeth rattling as the horn went off. He leaped up out of his seat and roared with ecstasy as he watched an exact duplication of a goal that had been scored a long time ago in a place that now seemed so very, very far away. He howled his approval over the angry buzz-click-chirp-chitters of the insect-spirit spectators, not caring what happened to him.

======================================

Neal almost didn't believe it. He just barely pushed the puck; just dinked it a little bit—and it went skittering under the goalie's legs and into the net! He turned and went rushing back up the ice. He fell to his knees, thrusting his hands toward the heavens in exultation as he slid and his teammates came swarming off the bench and mobbed him. A burning rush of joy coursed through him as he celebrated his goal. It was the greatest feeling on the planet. He had come into the house of the enemy with teammates, and together they had prevailed against seemingly impossible odds.

"We did it! We did it! My God, we won!" Neal looked into the faces of his teammates as they hugged him and each other in celebration. He wanted to tell them that he wasn't who they thought he was, that he was the grandson of the man whose jersey he was wearing and that it was years after they had won, that they were all spirits.

His teammate with the china-doll features grabbed him in a tight embrace and quietly said, "we knew you could do it." Neal looked at him and dumbly said, "Do what?"

His answer was a laugh and a pat on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get in the handshake line."

======================================

Hoho watched as the players lined up for the traditional handshake. His heart swelled with pride—he'd known that this was coming, ever since the vision quest he had partaken in Newfoundland. He'd known that his friend had a destiny that he was only beginning to realize.

He felt a slight burning sensation and looked down to see molten coppery-silver light coursing down the steps and over the seats. He heard inhuman shrieking, shrieking that threatened to shatter him as the light splashed over the insect spirits around him. They burned, melted, twisted, were vaporized. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a tall man in a dark blue coat and wearing white gloves looking at him with a slight wry smile on his oval face. His dark brown hair was somewhat tousled, and his dark hazel eyes twinkled merrily.

"Come," he said in tones that rang as clear and deep as a bell even as they were laced with a little bit of humor. "You need rest." He patted Hoho as he led him up the steps. "It will be over soon." Hoho stepped through the doorway at the top of the stairs, and the world went dark.

Behind them, the light flowed over the glass and onto the ice, engulfing everyone like a tidal wave. The others on the ice vanished, swept away by the glittering tsunami. It coalesced around Neal's astral form, imbuing him with new energy. Two words echoed in the air: "Free us." He started down the ice toward the opponent's end, and then launched himself into the air and over the glass toward the suite. The Queen of the hive shrieked and extended her claws in a futile attempt to cast a spell at the skater, who stopped in mid-air for the briefest instant before diving at the Queen. Neal swung his stick with all his might, driving the blade deep into the Queen spirit. The luminescent waves of energy surrounding him were channeled down the stick and into the Queen's body, causing her to shriek and writhe in agony. Neal stood and watched as the Queen was torn apart from the inside and a cascading wave of copper-tinged silver exploded outward with a roar.

The world went dark.

If Neal had been able to stay, he would have seen eight men coming out to place a gleaming silver trophy on a cloth-covered table at center ice.

======================================

The five of them dreamed.

After the traditional handshakes, the opposing players—legends of the game—lined up at their blue line. They stood in solemn silence as the eight men—spirits embodying past Keepers of the Cup—stood their watch. The tall dark-haired Keeper with the scar on his lip stepped forward, speaking in the ethereal bell-like tones that they had all heard.

"Who would claim this prize?"

Neal turned, looking for his captain—but he was alone. He looked at the Keeper, whose brown eyes had turned to solid silver and now glowed with an unearthly light, and spoke up.

"I would."

"Name yourself."

"My name," he said—and he felt himself falter for a moment before steeling himself and continuing, "is Neal Hedican."

The keeper nodded slowly. His voice took on another sound, like that of an entire choir of voices. "This trophy accepts only those who have won the right to touch it, those who are known to the Cup by right of victory. We know that you are the heir to a champion, and that you now claim championship for yourself. Come forth then Neal Hedican, Son of James and Grandson of Bret, and let your worthiness be judged."

Neal skated forward to the table as the dark-haired Keeper raised the Cup from the table and held it out to him. He reached out to touch it, and felt himself start to fade. He willed himself to stand, to fight the drain as he put his hands on the Cup and removed it from the Keeper's grasp. The ancient trophy glowed brightly in his hands, suffusing him with deep healing warmth. He saw all of those who had gone before, people that he had only heard about and seen in books and trids. He felt welcome. Tears of joy ran down his face. Neal knew that he would never see his name engraved on the Cup. Nevertheless, he had won it and been accepted just the same.

The Keepers stepped forward. Their apparent leader and spokesman held his hands out. Neal passed the Cup back to him, and felt darkness overtake him. The last thing he heard as he slipped into night was a heartfelt "Thank you."

======================================

A joined sigh came from the porch swing as the audio disc ended, followed by a soft sniffle.

"I told you that you would do it." The soft smack of a kiss and the rustle of cloth on cloth were the only sounds that fell on the porch. "But you didn't listen."

"Just like I've told you lots of things that you didn't listen to, either."

Danielle sighed and chuckled softly. She shifted slightly, looking up. "Hey."

Bret looked down at her. "Yes?"

"You want another one of those?" She nodded at the julep cup and smiled as she got up and turned, her grey dress swirling about her calves. "I'm going to fix myself one, and I don't want to be rude and not share."

"Actually, I think I'd rather just sit out here for a while longer and watch the sun rise." He sat up and gazed over to the east as the first silver-golden rays of dawn stretched across the sky, then reached out a hand. "Please stay here and watch it with me."

She set the cup down on the table next to the player. "Well since you insist," she said as she sat back down on the swing and put an arm around Bret, "I'll just park my old hoop here and watch it with you."

======================================

(Neal's POV)

We got back to the Cities in about 4 and a half hours. Acid Queen drove like a juiced-up rigger from hell—how she managed to avoid getting pulled over, I'll never know. I sat in the back with the Cup. The Stanley freaking Cup. Wow.

There wasn't anything to clean up in the old hive. Whatever happened to the bugs, they weren't there anymore. They'd been obliterated. We woke up in the abandoned building that had been their hive, and the Cup was just sitting there on the floor waiting for us—for me. I walked over to it and picked it up, half-expecting to be struck down. But nothing happened—I just picked it up and carried it toward the door.

"I think our work is done here," I said. "Could somebody get the door for me please?"

We pulled up in front of Granddad and Nana's place at about 10 or so in the morning. They were asleep on the porch swing, with an audio disc player on the little table by the swing. They'd been listening to the old call of the game where Granddad won the Cup—Firestorm thought it was cute. I thought it was…well, come on! They're my GRANDPARENTS for frag's sakes!  I just didn't think about them that way, you know?

Hoho opened the door on the back of the van, and I piled out with the Cup. I took it up onto the porch and knelt before the swing, setting it in front of Granddad. I shook his knee a little bit. "Granddad…Granddad… Look what I brought."

His leg brushed ever so slightly against the Cup, and his eyes snapped open. He raised his head and looked down at the Cup and me, and smiled. He scooted forward on the swing a bit, and we hugged. He wept. I wept. Nana wept.

We had made it out alive—with the Cup. I told him about the game. I told him about the bugs at my apartment. I told him almost everything. However, I didn't tell him of my encounter with the Keepers—I didn't have to. He knew. He just knew.

You remember how I told you earlier that my bike is armored, and to remember that because it would come in later? Get this:

Acid Queen drove me back to my doss. I have to walk past my bike to get to the elevator that goes up to my apartment—and I come to find out that some fraggin' go-gang had decided to have a little firefight in the parking deck…and they shot up MY fraggin' bike! If Bolo hadn't been armored, then good-bye Draft Day Present and hello Super-Fragged-Off Neal.

I received a hero's welcome in Toronto—as much of a hero's welcome as you can get when you come in on a charter flight under cover of darkness and without any fanfare whatsoever, anyway. The caretakers of the Hall of Fame were grateful to have the Cup back. The NHL apologized for drumming me out earlier, and they offered to toss out the "no adepts" rule and let me back in—but I politely declined. After what I'd been through in one night, a 20-year career in the NHL somehow seemed like an anticlimax. Besides, I didn't want any special treatment. Let the rule change or not change on its own time, and let players play.

This is the part where I say "the end", right? Not exactly.

You see, the Cup sang to me on the flight, as I snoozed with my arms around it. It told me of past glories, old heroes and tales of celebrations. I saw all of the places it had been to, saw the wonder in the eyes of the people that gathered by the thousands in public squares and auditoriums and sports stadiums just to get a glimpse of it. It sang to me like a lover, told me stories of sacrifice and valor, introduced me to all those that had won it before. I wept tears of joy as I slept—and more after I woke up. 

The spirits in the Cup wanted me to win, needed me to help it be free of the insects—but I had to do it honestly. The drain I felt when I took the Cup was when part of me was absorbed into it. Any player will tell you that they feel tired after winning the Cup—that's why. They take away the memories and the honor of having their names engraved on it, and in return, it takes a little bit of them so that they'll live on. When you've had the honor of winning the Cup, you become a part of it and it becomes a part of you in a strange and wonderful symbiosis. It's alive because of everybody that's ever won it. It doesn't eat, it doesn't sleep, it doesn't breathe—but it talks, lives, sees, hears, and feels all the same, and all because of the men that have freely given of themselves so that they can spend a little time with it. Those that have won the Cup know. They don't have to tell each other about how it feels to win the Cup—they all know. It's a feeling that you just can't adequately describe to somebody who hasn't been there.

It sounds a little weird, I'm sure—but I guarantee you that any player will tell you that they'll happily sacrifice a little bit of themselves to the Cup if it means that they can hold it for a while. This was what I had worked my whole life to attain. And I had to fight the damn bugs to do it. If I had to do it again, I would happily do it—and here's why:

That game in Chicago was the most perfect game I have ever played, folks. It was beautiful, even if it was in astral space. It was something I'll never forget. Every moment that I played in that game, I felt as though another one of my cares had been lifted off my shoulders. The hurt from the hits was a good hurt. It was a happy hurt. I loved it. I had never been as happy as I was when I played in that game, and I don't know if I'll be that happy again for as long as I live. 

I only hope that one day, after my time in the physical world is over, I'll be able to play in that eternal game and be happy forever.


End file.
